Shells and Medkits
by SuckMyDeck
Summary: He'd been running for so long. For a while, he'd convinced himself that he didn't need any help through this hellish place. His mistake was realized after he received a helping hand from a handsome stranger named of Sherlock Holmes.
1. Chapter 1

It had been two months that John was on the run. Barely capable of sustaining himself with the supplies provided, he often found himself sprinting those last few steps to the safe house. Before locking , and barricading the door behind him. He was tired of running, and regardless of painted rumors—He never found the CDC evacuation centers. Actually, he'd never even seen another survivor other than himself. Not one that hadn't… turned.  
Today, however, was not like any other. Today was the day John had regained hope. Today, was the day he met the second survivor, in his now thriving group.

He was sprinting now. The semi-automatic shotgun he'd grabbed from the last safety zone, clenched tight at his side. Eyes narrowed as the red door he'd come to know and love throughout this entire ordeal, came into view. Without a second thought he dove forward. Landing only a few feet from the door, beginning a desperate crawl. They were gaining on him. About 7 of them. In a fit of adrenaline filled fury, he quickly flipped onto his back and fired the final few shells he had at them. He managed to hit the two that were closest. A lagging duo also got hit, falling to a knee, but not ceasing their pursuit. Instinctively, John reached a hand to his side, gripping his Desert Eagle. He'd made a decision long ago to keep this gun strictly in case of emergency. After some last second assessment of the situation, he'd decided now was the time. Drawing his weapon, he fired at the foes. A headshot. With ease, the lifeless corpse fell to the ground. Leaving only 4.  
It all happened so quickly. One moment, he was completely engulfed in the scent of dying flesh, and rotting corpses. The next, there were gunshots, and the bodies began falling. It wasn't until he was begin drug into the confines of the safe house, that he'd come to. Dreary at first, he must have hit his head or something… His back hit the cold surface, which could have, and probably was, a wall. The smell of gunpowder, medical supplies, mildew, and decaying flesh began to mingle, and danced about his nose. Semi-long lashes fluttered open to reveal curious, and mildly defensive blue eyes.  
Everything was foggy, and unclear. He'd definitely hit his head. Hands quickly searched the wall, looking for enough support to hold him, so he could come to a stand. But a small shuffling across the room made him freeze in his tracks.  
"Who's there?," John whispered. If it was one of the infected populace, he would've already been attacked. But if it was a military officer, he would have attempted some form of communication after seeing that John had been generally unharmed, and immune. Neither came. Instead, silence slowly began to fill the room, gradually setting John to a point of acute paranoia.  
After convincing himself that the noise he'd heard was probably nothing, he settled down against the wall, closing his eyes again. In hopes of regaining proper sight soon.  
Roughly 10 minutes later, that same shuffling happened again. His eyes opened once more, only slowly this time. The dim light from the lantern across the way, illuminated the opposite side of the room just enough to reveal a rather slim, but definitely living figure. Due to the constraints of the current sight disability, the small man couldn't make out any detailed features from the form, only that they were tall and slim.  
Indefinitely, John was alarmed. He had yet to meet another lucid human being on his journey. So, of course he was partial to the overall idea of interaction. Gently, ever so gently, he stood up. His sight had returned, but it didn't change the view of the shadowy figure. Instead, only made him appear more three dimensional.  
John's hand slipped to the back of his belt, gently unhooking the fire axe he'd kept as melee security. Holding it up, he slowly approached the figure. Upon closer inspection, John could make out a lanky fellow. Most likely in his mid-20's. He was wearing a rather torn and tattered purple button up, and black dress pants.  
"Who are you?," he inquired, lifting a brow. When the figure turned to him, he'd brought himself to lower the axe. Utterly in disbelief of what he saw.  
There, stood a rather tall man. Skin as gentle and light as cream. Eyes a mix of blue, surrounded by a faded green. Eyes that looked like galaxies were trapped within them. A cut on his right cheek was bleeding, leaving a streak of red on his cheek. It looked, almost as though he'd been wearing war paint. Which, considering the situation he was stuck in, would have been ironic. The male looked at John, then the axe, a brow slowly coming to rise.  
"I'm sorry. Are you alright?," the stranger asked, turning to John. Revealing that, in hand, he had medical wrap, cascading over his nimble fingers. He reached out, placing a hand on John's shoulder. John, whom hadn't had any peaceful type of contact in months, jumped.  
"It's alright," the attractive stranger pressed, "I'm only going to dress your wounds. You hit your head pretty good back there… I'm worried you may have a concussion." John calmed at this, and nodded. Sitting himself on the edge of the supply table, he undid his shirt, and draped it over the ladder which was settled on the wall beside them. This safe room must have been a supply closet, prior to the break out.  
Slender fingers wrapped around John's arm, as the man wrapped the gauze about his shoulder. He had so many cuts on him, the man had decided to tend to the most serious of the batch.  
"You've had quite the run, hm?," he asked the stranger, looking over him. Those same curious eyes traveled over the curly haired man, who was covered with blood stains, and cuts. With a sigh, the man nodded. "I've been running for… Months now. Searching desperately for evacuation centers. None as of yet." He trailed off, before chuckling, nodding gently to the left. "To be honest, you're the first person I've met, moving, who can shoot a gun, and hasn't tried to bite my face off."  
They laughed. It was shocking just how anti-social one could become from months of running, and shooting anything that moved. So much so, that any humor, no matter how dark it may be, was found hilarious. John looked the man over, and smiled. Comforting, wasn't it, the idea of finding out that someone else other than yourself survived the living Hell that slowly seemed to be taking over the world. The disease was spreading like wildfire. But just the feeling of having someone else behind you. Someone who was lucid, and can laugh at a joke, no matter how stupid it was, made it feel like everything was okay.  
"Where are you coming from?," John asked, quirking his brow gently.  
"I've been running for about… Well, I'm not honestly sure. It's been about 9 safe houses now."  
John's eyes widened, and he practically choked. That was roughly 3 states wide. How had someone so.. Soft, made it so far? True, John was basing all of this on appearances, which may not have been wise. He himself was rather small, a bit pudgy as well, but not too much. Short, but thanks to his years in the military medical section, he knew how to care for wounds, as well as use a gun.  
"What war?," the man said, interrupting his thoughts. John's head shot up so quickly, he was surprised he didn't break it.  
"Pardon?"  
"What war did you partake in?," he repeated, not looking up from the wounds he was spreading the disinfectant spray over. He laid down a secondary layer of gauze as John watched.  
"How did you…" but John quickly shook his head, realizing just how pointless it was to ask, "Afghanistan."  
"As I thought. What did you do?," comes the response, almost as quickly as the question was answered.  
Answering questions was becoming a bit awkward to him, he'd never really thought about anything regarding his past since this entire ordeal began. Yet here he was, ready to explain his entire life story to a stranger.  
"I was a doctor on the field. Got shot in the-"  
"Shoulder."  
"Yes… How did you-?"  
"I have my ways," he said, taping the gauze down, before pulling away with a smile. "I hope my work is up to par with your expectations, Doctor."  
John only chuckled, and shook his head. He stood again, slipping the shirt on, buttoning it up. The person before him was one of intelligence, and certainly had a keen eye. Must have caught sight of the scar on his shoulder, regardless of the dimly lit surroundings.  
"Call me John." He said, finishing up on the last button before holding out a hand, for the sake of some more humanistic interaction, "John Watson."  
"Sherlock Holmes," the curly haired male choked out, before grasping the offered hand in his own, giving a firm, hard shake.  
The sound of the moaning from just beyond the barricade quickly cut ties to the warming moment between the two, and brought them both back to the cold reality. The sound of clawing and scraping were heard, and just beyond that door, they both knew what lay. The ravenous, violent, blood thirsty diseased that have plagued their homeland.  
With a grunt, mostly due to the unwilling nature he carried to continue, John made his way over to the door. Retrieving the shotgun he'd dropped earlier, strolling to the ammunition table. Ammunition was collected, and left for whatever survivors happened to find their way here. Also some food, water, and overall shelter from the unrealistic circumstances that lay outside.  
"So, just how far is the next one?," Sherlock said, as John finished loading the shotgun, cocking back the barrel. With a sigh, John shook his head and peeked out the boarded door of the safe house. Each safe house had two doors. An entrance, and an exit. Each entrance, upon being closed, had to be locked. But, for extra measures, after the evacuation, John always barricaded the doors behind him. He knew there weren't any survivors behind him anyway. He was left behind the day of the evacuation, so thus he's been fending for himself ever since.  
"Well," the kindly doctor said, slowly bringing up one of the few empty tables in the room, and placing it, cattycorner against the entrance door. He then, reached out, grabbing a ladder, placing it diagonally against the door. "Honestly, I'm not sure. I usually just find the safe houses after wandering around for a bit. Half of the safe houses are placed in either; completely isolated, or overly-populated locations. So, I just have to look around first."  
Sherlock gave a hearty sigh, and looked off, a cringe of defeat detectable in his eyes. The curls atop his head seemed to bounce with each movement, as he made his way over. He placed his attention to a rather large filing cabinet. Placing both hands on the sides of it, he pressed his weight into it, and slowly began to push it towards the door. It budged, but only barely.  
"Same as me then," he grunted, giving another futile attempt to make the filing cabinet moved where he wished it. John, who had just placed down a chair, withheld a snicker. Strolling over to Sherlock, he stood by his side and nodded. Sherlock moved over to make room for his comrade, and they both began to shove their bodies against the heavy metal structure. Pushing it up against the entrance as the final supporting factor of their makeshift barricade.  
"Same as anyone, really." John finished, reaching for his gun. He reloaded his guns, putting them to their proper places on his person, and hooked the fire axe back on his belt. Soon thereafter, they both turned their attention to the door.  
"That's what we have to go through, though," Sherlock cooed in an almost entertained tone.  
John stood by Sherlock's side, handing his taller friend his assault rifle.  
Sherlock placed a hand on the door, taking in a deep breath.  
"It's time to get to work," he said after a pause, before looking over at John. Giving a nod of confirmation, Sherlock removed the blockage bar from the large, metal door, and tossed it down, slowly pushing the door open.  
John smiled lightly, watching the other male shoot one of the infected in the far distance. For a moment, if only for a moment, he felt safe. He had someone now. Someone he can have beside him to face this nightmare with. Someone had for help, and support. Someone he could lean on during these hellish trials. Someone to fight for.


	2. Back Alley Madness

It was another dreary morning. The sun had only just risen, to be covered by grey rain clouds, sobbing their song over the deserted city. The deafening silence was droning off into the distance along with the ever so familiar moaning and groaning of the infected, who wandered aimlessly through the messy streets. It was something that, in ones travels, you'd become used to. It was the clashing of feet to asphalt that made it all rush back. The situation, the conflict. If you were to go by mood alone, you'd assumed that one was in just another city. The rain outside had sent in all the residents, leaving empty streets, due to the flood of rainwater blessed from above.

Unfortunately, this was not one of those stations. Quite the opposite. Instead, the peaceful city depicted in ones mind was brought to an annoying cut off with a gunshot, ringing out through, and echoing. Back to reality, John and Sherlock ran through a trash ridden alley, several infected on their heels. They had been searching for the safe house for hours now. All the signs, casually spray painted onto the building walls, that once played as help in their searches, now, only seemed to be leading them in circles. Running short on ammunition, and patience, John and Sherlock were at wit's end. Every corner seemed to point them to another dead end. After about the third round through the backstreet pathways, the duo decided to stop mid way, and hold their own against he oncoming horde.  
Making sure to put good amount of distance between them and the group, both men turned. Sherlock, held his assault rifle high, aiming towards the general direction down the alley, as John cocked his shotgun, also taking aim.

"Bullets aren't something we can spare. So if you're not sure if you'll hit your target, don't take the shot." John said, inhaling sharply.

"You're the one with a short range weapon, John. My aim may not be exceptional as a war hero's, but I'm using a gun made for distance. You needn't worry about me hitting my targets." The tall mans words were brought to a stop with the echoing of gunshots through the alley. The scattered shells of the ex-military doctor's shotgun hit a few of the sprinting corpses, sending them in a toppling flop to the cold ground below. Stopping about two to three of them with each shot. The curly haired man, with only one of his galaxy colored eyes open, took aim. In order to conserve ammunition, he was making strictly head shots. With no intentions of missing, Sherlock fired. Four sacks of rotting flesh fell from the front of the herd, tripping up a few of the following.

With the total John had killed, in addition to Sherlock's kills as well, in mere seconds, cut significantly to the overall populace that was once racing towards them. Causing it to dwindle into a small herd of four. With such a small number to worry about, the boys knew that cutting into their main supply of bullets was unnecessary. Instead, John unhooked the axe he kept at his hip, rushing forward to take one of the four oncoming. Sherlock, whom watched, took this opportunity to look about the alley for another sign that could lead him, as well as his comrade, to the now cherished, muddled silence of the safe house.

The shorter form, suddenly colliding with the first of the group, stopping them both head on. John, holding the death scented foe, with a forearm to its throat, raised his axe. Quickly, he pulled his arm away, bashing the blade of his melee weapon into the enemies' skull, immediately ceasing its movements. With a grunt, he pulled out the blade. This action hadn't given him too much time to react when the following three approached. One ran to John, screeching at the top of it's lungs, arms outstretched as bloodthirsty gurgles left its throat, freely giving light to its hunger. This left the remaining two sprinting to Sherlock, whom, predictably enough, reached for his side arm.

He only had two shots left in the clip, so clearly, he had to make them count. The one closest to him got an immediate bullet to the brain, leaving it fall at his feet. Using it's fallen comrade as a distraction, the following's attack was delayed, only long enough to throw Sherlock off as he'd first looked down to see if the attacker was properly stopped. This gave the last of the two just enough time to throw themselves into the taller males midsection.

Both of them toppled to the ground with a thud. Sherlock fended the ravenous creature off the best he could. Using his thin arms to hold back snapping, hungry jaws, that came inches from his face. In the mean time, John was wrestling his own demon. Pinning the opponent to the graffitied alley wall, John sharply inhaled again. One of its flailing limbs flew up, half hitting him in his scarred shoulder. Grunts signaled Sherlock's difficulty at keeping his own attacker at bay. He'd dropped his firearm when he had his fall, and now, it lay, ever so cliched, mere inches out of his reach. Using every ounce of force his slender body could give, Sherlock pushed and kicked forward, sending the corpse fly backwards, landing on its back just behind John.

When a hungry animal is denied it's food in one place, it will move to the nearest place of convenience for nourishment. To that fallen animal, it's closest 'meal', was one, unsuspecting John Watson, whose back was turned, due to his focus on his own attacker. So when the ferocious, decaying form took interest in the small man, and made it's way up and towards him, there was nothing he could do in forms of self defense due to the distraction set directly before him.

However, Sherlock yielded to different plans. As he kicked the foul beast away, he abruptly reached for his gun, fumbling with it a bit before finally taking aim. One shot, that's all it took. Infected palms were on John's back, and slowly slid down, until the now dead body toppled in a heap behind him. John, still struggling with the corpse in front of him, turned away for a moment, only a moment to look at the situation he'd been oblivious to the entire time.

"How many bullets in the machine gun?", he pressed, placing only a bit more pressure to the pinned creatures neck.

"From what I've counted, only about 6." Sherlock looked to John, gathering back his breath. Worried, rushed eyes ran over the walls of the alley way, in search of a sign.

"There must be something..." The tall man muttered, his frustration beginning to show. His hands slowly floated up to hover at his chest, fingers typing out imaginary letters as he skimmed through the street designs all about the walls. The grunts given from John signaled the struggle he was having at keeping the growling fiend at bay.

"Hurry Sherlock..." John mumbled, the cracking of bones from the creatures neck clearly displaying the amount of pressure he was applying to it.

"Something... There's gotta be something-" suddenly, Sherlock froze. Behind a trash can, a subtle, black glob of spray paint was visible. "Oh, that's clever. So clever." Laughing, he made his way towards the trash can, he placed two firm hands on the lid, swiftly pushing it aside. Garbage and rotted food stuffs flowed from the emptied container. There, in plain view, was truly a sight for sore eyes.

One arrow, pointed up. With a small house just below it in thin, black spray paint.

"Sherlock...", The doctor pressed again, shifting a bit from struggle with the still living corpse. "What is it? What did you find?"

Giving a half hearted turn, he looked back at his new comrade, brow lifted. The taller man stepped away from the arrow, looking up. A ladder, spawning from a fire escape, lay just out of his reach. Attempting to reach the ladder of his own fruition, Sherlock gave a small hop, arms flying up, attempting to grasp the bottom rung, to pull it down to level.

"I've found the safe house." His response was curt, as he walked back over to John. Taking firm holds of his axe, he pulled it from the shorter male's hand, shoving him back. The rotting sack of flesh stepped forward, looking between the two, before lunging forward, mouth wide, ready to bite whomever he reached first.

Sherlock however, put a quick stop to this, raising the axe, just above his shoulder, dropping it down onto the attacker's skull. Brain matter seeped from the wound, as did blood, and flesh. He brought a foot to the now dead man's chests he pushed it forward, withdrawing the blade, before handing it back to its rightful owner.

John, standing, and watching, in shock, took the axe. Slipping it to his hip again, he attempted to secure it on his person. He failed the first few times, before the satisfying clammer of the wooden handle against the metal of his shotgun filled his ears. Turning now, to Sherlock, his eyes ran up, from the insignia put on the wall. Catching glimpse of the ladder, he made a quick dart forward. Down the other end of the alley way, came yet another small group, sprinting towards there location.

Showing his distaste for the situation, the army doctor huffed, and shook his heads as he began his rushed climb to the top, stopping at the first landing, Sherlock trailing not too far after.

Another spray painted arrow, pointing up, led the to the safe house. Hurried footsteps on the metal escape, followed by deep labored breaths, all came to a stop as they ran into the closed door of the safe house. John busted through the door first, Sherlock right behind him.

"We made it..." John said, giving a small, breathless chuckle, as the steel door closed behind them. Leaning his back to the wall just beside the door, he looked over to his friend, shaking his head. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."  
Sherlock also leaned his back to the wall, just beside John, as he stifled a laugh of his own. "And you invaded Afghanistan."

More of the dark humor brought the boys into a small laughing fit. These were the moments you'd come to cherish and treasure in times such as these. This moment, however, was brought to a halt with a clearing of the throat. But it was not John, nor Sherlock, no. The gesture came from the opposite end of the room.

The men looked forward, into the slightly dimmed area, their eyes were still adjusting to the light change. There, on the other side of the room, stood a man, and a woman. Neither of them infected, obviously. Since neither John nor Sherlock had been attacked yet. The silence, however, held. Each duo seemed to be inspecting the other, not likely in looking for sign of threat, or dangerous behavior.

"Sorry, who are you." John's question shot out, abruptly cutting off the silence, rushing them all back to the moment at hand.

The woman stepped forward first, a small, almost shy smile on her face. "I'm Molly Hooper." And Sherlock's eyes widened. It wasn't until the woman had stepped into the light, and spoke, that he'd recognized her. John, unknowing of the connection between the woman or his friend, merely nodded. "Sherlock..," she said with a giggle, before making her way over to him. "It's been a while since we've seen each other."

With his severe hate of sentiment rearing its ugly head again, Sherlock's attention was turned to the man of Molly's company.

"Honestly, Molly. I assumed you'd have been killed. It's ...a pleasure. To see you. For lack of better words." The stinging response seemed to make even John flinch a bit. However, the strange, silent man across the room hadn't even shifted from his spot since this all began. No words, movements, only staring. At Sherlock. Of which, Sherlock responded with staring of his own.

Noting the intense focus between the two, the woman cut in, smiling a bit. "Oh, I'm sorry. I would've introduced you sooner, but this entire situation has me all riled up, this is my boyfriend," Acting on cue, the man stepped forward, offering an immediate hand to Sherlock. The subtle smile on his face showing his over-interest in the taller man.

"Jim." He said, offering a grin.


End file.
